


The Terrible Light

by bobbiewickham



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 20:16:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8259292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/pseuds/bobbiewickham
Summary: Cosette begins to learn about her mother's past.  Post-canon.  (Sequel to Sub Rosa).





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feuillyova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feuillyova/gifts).



“Good morning,” said Marius, with an air of anxious concern, as Cosette came into the dining room for breakfast. Nicolette looked from one to the other and left, murmuring something about eggs.

“Good morning,” Cosette echoed, equally polite. They were very polite with each other, these days. Grandfather Gillenormand didn’t like it. He wasn’t at breakfast this morning. He was still in bed, having stayed up unusually late the previous night at an evening party with some other old ladies and gentlemen.

But only yesterday he’d been complaining about the formal courtesy of Cosette and Marius. “What is this, the court? Pah! You’re newlyweds. You’re not lawyers arguing against each other and following all the proper procedures. You children don’t know how to be in love!”

Grandfather Gillenormand was affectionate, and kind, and no doubt meant well, but it was a relief to not hear that sort of talk this morning. It was difficult enough to sit across from Marius and exchange pleasantries over the coffee, each carefully avoiding all talk of sadness, without grandfather Gillenormand commenting on it.

“What are your plans for today?” Cosette dutifully asked this question each morning, even though the answer was nearly always the same.

This morning was no different. “I will be reading in my study until afternoon,” Marius said, “and then I will be meeting a client.”

“Oh,” said Cosette, with a show of interest. “Who’s the client?”

“A shopkeeper who thinks his partner may be embezzling,” said Marius. “It’s a bit complicated, and involves a subtle point of law--” Here he gave a self-conscious laugh. “But no doubt it would bore you.”

“No doubt,” Cosette repeated. She gave him her best smile, but her mind was already elsewhere. When Marius vanished into his study, Cosette found Nicolette and drew her aside. “Have you spoken to Madame Zuchowska this week? Are we still having the sewing circle this afternoon?”

“Yes, yes,” Nicolette said. “It’s all arranged. We’ve rented the room above Mme Zuchowska’s shop, and we’ve arranged with her to provide coffee and cakes. It will be a very nice afternoon. Don’t you fret, madame.”

Cosette spent her morning arranging flowers in the sitting room and giving instructions for lunch and dinner preparations. Then she paced her garden, giving no thought to the trees or the birds or the cloudless sky, until Nicolette came to fetch her for the sewing circle.

She went inside to gather her purse. They were to meet with some refugee women from Poland, who were in need of employment. The circle would a chance for Cosette talk to them, see their sewing, and perhaps help them find work. Cosette had gotten the idea when she went to buy a mourning fan from the fan painter Feuilly, who had painted a lovely blue and white one for her long ago, and had told her of Poland—only to learn that Feuilly had died in the same uprising that had nearly killed Marius. 

Aurélie, another painter in the same atelier, had done Cosette’s mourning fan for her, and had helped Nicolette arrange for the circle. Cosette took up the fan now, pausing by the door to stare at it. The fan was a black-painted tortoiseshell brisé, with the same style of flowers as the one Feuilly had done, though in gray instead of white.

“Madame?” Cosette looked up, startled, to see Nicolette. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes,” said Cosette, collecting herself. They stepped out into the street and found a fiacre, which took them to the rue Pépinière. “Little Poland,” Nicolette had called this neighborhood. The fiacre stopped in front of a small boot shop. Cosette dismounted after Nicolette, and looked around. Ragged people clustered on the street, and it seemed everyone was chattering in Polish. At the end of the block, a man in shirtsleeves and a gray cap shoved a man in a well-made frock coat; Monsieur Frock Coat pushed back, and a tussle began.

Cosette turned her attention back to the boot shop. “Is this Mme Zuchowska’s?”

“Yes,” said Nicolette. She frowned. “Mme Zuchowska’s a bit nervous—she jumps at every little noise—but you must not take that for rudeness. She has had terrible shocks, poor lady. In Warsaw, when the Russians invaded, her husband’s heart gave out under the strain, and he died. She’s been very brave, bringing her children here and opening the shop, but she’s nervous.”

“How awful,” said Cosette. “I’m glad you told me. Of course I won’t think she’s rude...I suppose they all have stories like that. Everyone we’re about to meet.”

“Probably. Mme Zuchowska’s the only one I know well.”

Cosette nodded. Then, with an instinctive leap of thought, she asked, “Have you heard anything from Basque’s cousin? Has he found out anything about my mother?” She was not in the habit of demanding answers about the past. The past, to Cosette, was an abyss waiting to snarl open beneath her feet; the only way to avoid falling in was never to look down. But Nicolette had _said_ Basque’s cousin Jean-Pierre was a clever man, who could find out anything.

And Cosette was sick of accepting ignorance. She had questioned her father’s disappearance, but not enough; she had complained when Marius and her father made their strange rules, and kept their secrets, but not enough. She had accepted it, in the end. And look what had happened.

Nicolette shook her head. “I’m sorry, madame. Not yet. It’s difficult, when he doesn’t even know where to start, with only a name...but I’ll let you know as soon as I hear, hmm?”

“Thank you,” said Cosette, forcing a smile. “Shall we go in?”

The boot shop was clear of dust and brightly painted, with boots stacked on one side, and a polished counter at the back. Cosette and Nicolette went through the door behind the counter, passing a back room with work tables equipped with needles and thread. “This way,” said Nicolette, pointing at the dark staircase.

At the top of the stairs was a door, which opened into a white room, with neatly arranged chairs and a large table set with strange little cakes. About ten women were standing round the table, clad in faded print dresses, talking animatedly, their hands moving as fast as their mouths. One of them saw Cosette, and nudged her closest neighbor, who nudged the next woman in turn. After some more nudging and whispering, all of the women became aware of Cosette’s entrance, and stilled, their faces blank and their hands folded before them. 

One of the women, somewhat older than the others, advanced. “Ah, my dear madame,” she said. Cosette was about to reply when she realized the woman was talking to Nicolette. She bit her lip, embarrassed. She’d never heard anyone call Nicolette ‘madame’ before. But of course, while Nicolette was a servant in Cosette’s house, she was not so elsewhere. A polite stranger or acquaintance would not be so familiar as to call her by her first name.

And this woman seemed very polite indeed. She held herself like a lady, though her dress was worn and unfashionable.

“Mme Zuchowska,” said Nicolette. “This is Mme la Baronne Pontmercy.”

“I’ve heard such lovely things about you,” said Cosette, stepping forward with a smile.

Mme Zuchowska’s answering smile seemed strained, perhaps because of the nervousness Nicolette had spoken of. “I’m so happy you wish to help these ladies.” Her voice was soft and low. “They’ve had such misfortunes. And they’re good women, all of them. You won’t regret it, I can promise you.”

“Oh, indeed not!” Cosette cried. “How could I regret giving any aid I can?” She looked over Mme Zuchowska’s shoulder to the table, where the women still stood, eyeing Cosette. She bit her lip. “Will you be so kind as to introduce me?”

“Of course,” said Mme Zuchowska, taking her by the hand and drawing her forward. She made the introductions, presenting Mme la Baronne to Anna, who was missing an eye and had joined the fighting during the November Uprising (Cosette could barely restrain her gasp of horror and pity: a _woman_ , and a slight one at that, fighting with men!); Jadwiga, who had lovely chestnut hair and had been a music teacher before she fled Warsaw; Dorota and Agnieszka, who worked in Mme Zuchowska’s boot shop and had made the little cakes for the gathering; Sophia, whose face remained hard and unsmiling as she was introduced, and who said nothing besides a polite greeting; Eva, who carried a forbiddingly thick book and was (so Mme Zuchowska said) very learned about politics and history; Wanda and Krystyna, sisters who were trying to start a school for Polish children; Favourite, a sour-looking woman who was not a refugee herself, but who had been teaching some of them to read French; and Aurélie the fan painter, who Cosette had already met, and smiled at gratefully—it was comforting, to see a familiar face.

Cosette took a cup of tea and nibbled cautiously at one of the cakes, which proved to be chewy and full of walnuts. “How delicious,” she said, to Dorota, who beamed.

“It is not hard to make,” said Agnieszka, as they made their way to sit in the chaises. “I can tell you how.”

It took Cosette a moment to make out her words through her accent. “Oh, that would be very good,” she said.

Agnieszka nodded. “Or I can tell Mme Laurentier.” Cosette had to think for a moment before remembering that this was Nicolette’s true name. In fact, even her Christian name wasn’t Nicolette, was it? Grandfather Gillenormand only called her that, because of his whims. “I suppose you don’t cook.”

“I do sometimes,” said Cosette lightly, but she couldn’t help the color rising to her cheeks: she couldn’t remember the last time she had done any cooking or anything industrious at all. Of course she had servants, she didn’t have to cook, but she suddenly felt—very idle. What had she done with herself since marriage? She’d let her father wither in misery while she lived for pleasure alone.

Well, she was starting again now, by helping these women. Her father was no doubt watching, and he would be pleased.

They all pulled out their sewing, and Cosette listened to them talk of what sort of work they could do. Jadwiga showed her an exquisite lace shawl, which Cosette was sure she could find buyers for. Anna, who with her one eye could not see well enough for very delicate work, said gruffly that she could nevertheless stitch, but would take any employment she could find.

“What about your school?” Cosette looked curiously at Wanda, and at Krystyna, who had so far said very little.

Wanda put her sewing down, and opened her hands. “We need space for a schoolroom,” she said, “and money for books, and to pay the teachers some sort of wage--”

“We tutor children for free now,” said Krystyna, “with Favourite’s help with the French, for we only know to read Polish. But you see, we can only teach for a few hours every week—we must work, we have no time for more. To teach properly—we must pay the teacher.”

_I have space in my house,_ Cosette was about to say, and then wondered if she should consult Marius and Grandfather Gillenormand first. She looked at Nicolette, who looked back with no particular expression. There could be no harm in offering help. It was the Christian thing to do, after all.

But perhaps she should find out more about these people and their proposed school before promising anything. “What would you teach?”

Wanda and Krystyna exchanged glances. “Reading,” Krystyna began.

“Both Polish and French,” Eva put in, with a very severe look. “The school is for the children of Poland, who’ve found a home here in France. They must learn French to live here, but they need to know Polish as well. They can’t be cut off from their motherland.”

Aurélie nodded. “They’ll go back to it, one day.”

“Until they do, we must keep its memory alive for them.” Eva’s sternness turned to melancholy; she looked down, and her face grew softer. “We don’t know how long it will be.”

Cosette hurried to find a cheerier subject. “What about music? Mlle Jadwiga, did you not say you taught it?”

“I did,” said Jadwiga, looking intently at her sewing. “Music is the soul of a people, and our children should learn it, but...it’s as Krystyna said. Money is a difficulty, and so is time.”

Cosette nodded. “Do you sing?”

“She sings like an angel,” Mme Zuchowska put in, “and plays the piano besides, and the violin.”

“Why, how clever of you!” Cosette exclaimed. “But what a shame, to be blessed by God with such skill, and yet unable to share it properly, so everyone may admire it.” She said all this without thinking first, and then felt a little shy of her outburst, but no one seemed to mind. It _was_ a shame. Cosette resolved that she _would_ do something to see that Jadwiga could devote more time to teaching and playing music. Surely Marius could not object.

“We would also teach arithmetic, of course, and history,” Krystyna continued.

“Perhaps you could give me a list of what you would teach, and how many teachers you would need, and—what the costs would be,” Cosette offered, after a moment’s hesitation, and a sidelong look at Nicolette. “I—may be able to help, a little. Not just with finding you some sewing work, but—with the school.”

Wanda’s eyes widened. She looked at Cosette for a long moment, before saying, in slightly wary tones, “That would be most welcome, madame.”

“We will make the list for you,” Eva promised, as she turned her penetrating gaze upon Cosette.

The conversation turned, then, to Poland, and Cosette listened, as the women talked of ideas she’d only thought of a little, and horrors she’d never had to face. Sovereignty, oppression, republicanism, liberty—these were things Marius spoke of, but Cosette always paid his face and voice more attention than his words. And brutality, violation, hunger, flight—somehow just hearing of such things filled Cosette with a cold dread, and a sense of having barely escaped from unspeakable dangers. They were brave, these ladies, braver than Cosette could ever be.

“That’s a pretty dress,” said Aurélie, to Jadwiga, when there was a lull in the conversation. “Who are you making it for?”

“Izzie—the little daughter of a lady who comes to Mme Zuchowska’s shop,” said Jadwiga. “A very fine lady, very rich—Mme Zuchowska kindly recommended me to her.”

“The child’s name can’t be Izzie,” said Nicolette. “No grand family would call its child such a name.”

“Oh, no,” said Jadwiga, shaking her head and shifting her fabric over. “The child’s proper name is Véronique. Izzie is her pet name.”

Aurélie laughed. “And how does one get Izzie from Véronique?”

“I’ve heard the most ridiculous pet names, you won’t believe it.” Eva wetted the end of the thread with her tongue, and frowned over the needle’s eye, trying to thread it. “--aha!” The thread went in. “I know a Zézette whose Christian name is Alexandrine, and a Mimi whose Christian name is Thérèse--”

“My Christian name is Euphrasie,” Cosette broke in, smiling. “But I’ve always been called Cosette, and do you know—I don’t even know why.” She suddenly thought it might have been-- _must_ have been, how could she not have thought this before--her mother who called her so, and her smile faded, but she kept it fixed on her face with an effort.

The conversation drifted away. Cosette let her mind drift with it, from odd nicknames to fashions to some new play some of the women had seen. It was with a light-hearted air that the gathering dissolved, with plans to meet again in a month’s time. “We will have your list by then,” Wanda said to Cosette, who nodded.

“I should find out about employment for at least some of you before then,” she said. “I’ll send word, and I have your addresses.”

Nicolette went downstairs with Mme Zuchowska and some of the others, while Cosette collected her purse and her coat. She looked up to see that she was the last one in the room. As she left and went onto the landing, shutting the door behind her, she heard someone move beside her. She turned, and saw that it was Favourite.

Favourite’s eyes were alight, and she wasted no time before speaking, in a very low voice. “I know who you are. Who your mother is, who your father is. But don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Tell what?” Cosette echoed, uncomprehending.

Favourite made a tsk-ing noise. “Oh, don’t pretend.” She lowered her voice even further, so now she was whispering. “I won’t tell anyone you’re a bastard.”

Cosette drew back, and pulled her coat around her. “I—what? What do you—I don’t—you’re wrong.” That was the one thought to solidify in her mind. Favourite was wrong. Probably mad, but certainly wrong.

“My dear,” Favourite said, with a short laugh that did not sound at all as if she were truly amused. She didn’t trouble to whisper anymore. The noise below had subsided; most of the others had left the building entirely, and the two women stood alone in the dark stairwell. “I know your mother. Her name is Fantine.” Cosette flinched, and froze. “She named you Euphrasie, but she always called you Cosette. As soon as you told us about that, I knew who you were. There surely couldn’t be more than one girl named Euphrasie but called Cosette.” Favourite shook her head. “Fantine was always one for foolish little things like that. Yes, you see, I know her. I know your father. His name is Tholomyès. I know they never married. You’re a bastard.” She raised her hands, as if to defend herself, when it was _she_ who was attacking Cosette like this, with no reason. “I mean you no harm. You’re madame la baronne, and it would shame you to have this come out, and I don’t want that to happen. Does your husband even know? Well, he won’t hear it from me. I won’t say anything. I promise. There was a time when I would have told, or threatened to tell, but now—no. Your secret is safe.” She paused, waiting for Cosette to say something, but Cosette’s tongue was leaden and she’d forgotten all her words. Favourite scowled, and then shrugged. “I won’t say anything,” she repeated, “but...remember me to Fantine, will you? I’d like to see her. If she’s not too grand for her old friends, now that she’s the mother of a fine lady. How is she?”

At this, Cosette came alive enough to say, “Dead. She’s dead.”

“Oh!” Favourite looked nonplussed. “But—she was younger than me, and healthy. I suppose anyone may fall ill--”

“She’s dead,” Cosette repeated, and fled down the stairs, not looking where she went.

Nicolette met her in front of the shop with a smile that became a frown as she saw Cosette’s face. “Why, madame!”

“It’s nothing,” Cosette said, not meeting Nicolette’s eyes. They found a fiacre and went home. Cosette chattered inconsequentially during the ride back, and when they reached, she went swiftly up the stairs and into the bedroom. She heard no sign of Marius, so perhaps he was still out with his client. Good. That was good. It meant she need not face him, not yet, not so soon after hearing that her mother was—that Cosette was--

“Nonsense.” She said it aloud. It was nonsense, surely. Favourite—who was she? Some grisette, from no family, of no standing, who didn’t know Cosette or Marius or her father. Her father, who was named Jean Valjean, and who had gone by the names Madeleine and Fauchelevent. Not—whatever Favourite had said. Whatever malicious lie Favourite had cooked up, for whatever reason, it needn’t cause Cosette any worry.

Favourite was helping the refugee women. That spoke of a charitable character, not a malicious one. Still—that didn’t mean she was telling the truth about everything. Perhaps she simply disliked Cosette. Or perhaps she was mistaken. That could be it. Favourite might have mixed up her memories. Favourite had once known some of other little girl with a strange nickname, perhaps something that sounded like Euphrasie, and she had become confused.

But she had said Fantine. She had said that name, and Cosette had heard it clearly. It was not a common name. Not even a proper Christian one, truth be told. Surely there could not be two women named Fantine who christened their daughters Euphrasie but called them Cosette.

Cosette sat down on the bed and buried her face in her hands. Then she stood up. She paced the length of the room, back and forth, and after half an hour’s worth of pacing, she went to the writing-desk in the corner. She found pen, paper, and ink, and wrote a letter to Favourite. When it was written, Cosette went outside and found a gamin to deliver it. She did not want to tell Nicolette or anyone else of this, not yet, and she was impatient for it to be delivered immediately.

They met again, the next day, at a restaurant not far from Cosette’s favorite hat shop. “Of course I knew your mother,” Favourite said, sipping her coffee. There was a pause, and then a sigh, and then, in a begrudging tone: “She was very beautiful. And oh, she put on airs, like she was a queen!” Another sip, while Cosette stared at her hands. “But she was a nice girl,” Favourite added, with great condescension. “We were friends, right here in Paris, so many years ago. I last saw her in—oh, it must have been 1818.” Favourite sighed yet again. “She was mad about your father, you know. I think she might have even expected him to stay with her.” Favourite gave a merry laugh, as if this were the most ridiculous notion she had heard of in her life.

The only word Cosette could form was a feeble “Oh?”

“Yes,” Favourite said, shaking her head. “Fantine wasn’t a woman of the world, not truly. She had a great many pretty ideas. It was charming, in its way.”

“My father,” Cosette managed to say. “What did you know of him?”

“Tholomyès? He was a student here, and he dallied with your mother before returning home to—Toulouse, I think it was? Well, to wherever. He was a bold man, a very dashing man. He was the leader of our little group, you know. I was with a student myself. Blachevelle.” Favourite giggled. “He was dull. I much preferred an actor I knew. But Tholomyès was never dull. He was the center of attention, always.”

“What,” Cosette said, and her voice was so weak she had to clear her throat and take a gulp of coffee and begin again. “What happened to him? Why did he leave?”

Favourite looked surprised. “Well, my dear,” she said, “he was a student, and his family was bourgeois, provincial. They wanted him to leave Paris, to come home and marry a suitable young lady.”

Cosette felt a shock of anger and shame that was almost bracing. “And my mother wasn’t suitable?”

The peal of laughter from Favourite almost made Cosette want to slap her. “You sweet, innocent child,” Favourite gasped out, “your mother was—well, as I say, she was a nice girl, but she was a grisette! She had no family, no breeding, no money. She sewed clothes—and none too well at that! Oh, she was all right when she really put her mind to it. She made you some pretty frocks, I remember. But she had nothing for a man like Tholomyès to marry her. Even if he’d wanted to, his family would have opposed it.”

_Even if he’d wanted to._ Did that mean-- “Did he—not—want to marry my mother?” It wouldn’t be so bad if at least he had wanted to, if their union had been consecrated by true love and torn apart by those who prized material wealth above all else...it would still be sin but it would not be so bad, it would not be _cold_...

Favourite stopped laughing. She set down her coffee cup and looked Cosette directly in the eye. The smirk faded from her face, and her voice, when she spoke, lacked the archness she’d affected before. “No. He did not. He left without leaving her any way of reaching him, and—the _way_ he told her—the way they all told us—they were leaving...it was a cruel joke. Well. _They_ thought it was a joke.” Favourite’s voice held real venom now. “But it was no joke. It was just meanness.”

A cruel joke. She wouldn’t ask about that yet. A sharp voice in her mind told her she’d better ask later, unless she wanted more secrets rising up to choke her. But not yet.

“What happened?” Cosette asked instead. “After…?”

Favourite looked down. “Well,” she said, “I don’t know very much about what happened to her after. But surely you must know.”

“I was adopted,” Cosette said. “My father—the man who adopted me, who raised me—he didn’t speak much of it.”

“She left Paris,” Favourite said, after a moment. “I do know that. When I last saw her, she mentioned she was going back to the country town where she was born.”

Cosette felt like she had when she and Marius had taken a boat-ride on the Seine, and the boat had suddenly lurched forward with no warning. “What town was that?”

Favourite frowned. “Montreuil-sur-mer,” she said. “Yes, I’m sure of it—the name was Montreuil-sur-mer. I remember, because she mentioned that it had prospered since she left it, and that’s why she thought she could find work there. Something to do with imitation jet beads.”

Cosette felt faint. She’d heard Marius mention Montreuil-sur-mer—but in connection with her father, with his fortune. He’d made his fortune there, somehow. And then there was his letter, the letter she kept safe at the back of a drawer in her bedroom. His letter, and his final words: _one can make imitations in France as in Germany..._

“I see,” she said, collecting herself. “That’s—thank you, Mlle Favourite.” She said it with complete sincerity, for Favourite had frightened her, but had also told her more than she’d ever known before. “We must meet again—I will want to hear, oh, anything. Anything you can tell me truthfully.”

“Oh, but of course.” The keen look on Favourite’s face said that she would not be at all averse to maintaining a connection with a rich baroness. Well, no matter—Cosette would gladly help this woman who had known her mother, and told her the truth.

When Cosette went home, she pulled her father’s letter out of its drawer, and sat down to read it once more. She held it well away from her face, for she didn’t want to let her tears damage this last gift from him.

The words were more than familiar; they’d been seared into Cosette’s heart. _The white jet comes from Norway, the black jet comes from England, the black glass jewelry comes from Germany._ Montreuil-sur-mer. M. Madeleine, who’d had a factory. Imitation jet beads, made with turpentine and shellac. Was that how her mother had met her father? Not the father of her blood, but the father of her heart and soul, who had given her everything and asked for nothing. Fantine came to Paris, had a child, suffered heartbreak, returned to Montreuil-sur-mer, worked making jewelry for Jean Valjean, and then...died, somehow, leaving her baby to be taken in by the rich man she worked for. What a saint her father had been! How many employers would take in their worker’s child, and raise her as their own?

Fantine’s last days could not have been easy. She attained sainthood through martyrdom, that’s what Cosette’s father had said. _She had as much of suffering as you have of happiness._ Cosette shuddered. What had happened to Fantine, in those last awful days? What was so terrible her father could barely speak of it?

Her father had protected her from whatever it was—cut her off from it entirely—she would never know the truth.

She had to know the truth.

“Madame?” Nicolette rapped on the door, drawing Cosette out of her thoughts.

“One moment,” Cosette called out. With great caution, she folded her father’s letter, and put it back in its drawer, safe beneath a pile of handkerchiefs. “Come in.”

Nicolette entered. “It’s supper time, madame.”

“Very well,” said Cosette, feeling a little guilty. “I suppose Marius and grandfather Gillenormand are waiting?”

“No, madame,” said Nicolette, “M. Gillenormand has gone to bed early. And M. le baron has sent word that he will have to travel to Lyon, for his latest case. He is very sorry to leave you,” she added, “and he sent a note for you as well.” She handed Cosette an envelope.

A note. Marius had left without consulting her first, and left only a note. Cosette opened it. It was a very good note. Marius apologized. He explained he had to personally make some inquiries for his client. He assured her of his love. He told her they would do all sorts of amusing things when he returned, which would be at the month’s end.

No doubt he had a right to leave. He didn’t require her permission. He had important work to do.

“Very well,” Cosette repeated. “I’ll eat alone, then. It’s just as well, for I will need to pack after supper—with your help, if you please, Nicolette.”

“Pack, madame?”

“Yes,” said Cosette, firmly. “I’m making a short journey myself, to the town of Montreuil-sur-mer.”

She was a married woman and could travel alone now, if she wished. And it was not so very far to go, to learn the truth.


End file.
